Pawns and Symbols
by The Dunadan Project
Summary: A little character piece of Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth and his friend and armsmaster Andrahar. Pre-LOTR. Warning: OCs, disturbing topics and implied m/m relationship. Co-written by Isabeau of Greenlea and Soledad.
1. Pawns and Symbols 1

**PAWNS AND SYMBOLS**

**by Soledad**

**Disclaimer: The overall settings belong to the great professor Tolkien and are taken from "The Lord of the Rings". The specific settings of Dol Amroth (like background facts and other extensions) belong to the Dol Amroth RPG-site. More about it can be found here:**

w.dol-amroth.de/roleplay/dol_amroth.htm

Master Andrahar is an OC of Isabeau of Greenlea and was used with her generous consent. The same is true for the Lady Tirathiel. All other unknown characters belong to me.

**Rating: G, most likely, but we'll see.**

**Author's notes:**

This is a story of Andrahar of Harad and Melpomaen of Fortir, who is an original character of mine, born from the insane urge to write the famous Figwit as a non-Elven character –  well, not entirely. According to the RPG-site, Fortir is the most northern town of Dor-en-Ernil, between Spathlin and Ethring at the river Ringló. I chose it for its relative closeness of the Elven city and haven, Edhellond.

The time is the year 2971 of the Third Age, a few moons after the 16-year-old Imrahil has returned from his first visit in Harad – in the company of a young Haradrim about his own age. These are Isabeau's settings, so I shall not go into any detail here. We agreed to post this story as part of the Dúnadan Project because it is a joint effort.

In my imagination, Harad is a land that we would call "oriental" as opposed to our Western culture. Thus I gave Andrahar a somewhat "oriental" mannerism, but that is only my approach on things.

My heartfelt thanks go to Isabeau for beta reading and the beautiful Epilogue she worte to this story.

I.

Ever since he had set foot in Dol Amroth, the Elf had fascinated him. 'Twas a rather... morbid fascination, certainly, for he hated Elves – during the short years of his youth that he actually _did spend in his father's house, he was taught to despise them and to never trust them. Besides, Master Melpomaen was not even a true Elf, though he certainly looked like one... well, more or less. Rumours told about him ran from a Silvan mother to an Avarin grandfather (Andrahar had made it his duty to learn all that was there to know about these deceptive creatures), yet no-one seemed to actually __know aught for certain._

Well, Prince Adrahil most likely did, but Andrahar wanted not to bother him with any questions. He called himself fortunate that the Prince tolerated him at all. When Imrahil brought him back from Harad, the Lord Adrahil was less than pleased to take a savage, unwashed and under-educated half-breed into his noble and refined house, and made no secret of his displeasure. Yet Imrahil put his foot down with his customary stubbornness and threatened to leave Dol Amroth for good, unless his newly-won friend would be allowed to stay.

The Ruling Prince knew his only son all too well, and he also knew that this was no idle threat. Thus he gave in with clenched teeth and ordered that "the wild youngling" be properly washed, groomed and clothed before brought back into his and his wife's presence again. For his part, Andrahar endured the humiliating process with equally clenched teeth, for Imrahil's sake who had not only saved his life when death seemed to be inevitable, but had also given him something he had never had before: friendship. Imrahil watched his "taming" with an infuriating grin, then, when he judged his appearance "acceptable", as he put it, dragged Andrahar with him, along endless corridors and stairways, to officially introduce him to the princely family.

The throne room surprised Andrahar greatly. It was huge, airily elegant and flooded with sunlight through the tall, narrow windows, yet it lacked the colourful decoration and golden pomp that even the modestly rich noble houses possessed. Instead of the ornamental wall paintings, beautifully-woven cloths hung on the walls, and the returning pattern of both the tapestries and the masterfully-shaped silver and alabaster lamps was that of the swan.

Of course, Imrahil had already told him long tales about the importance of the swan symbol for his family, but he never thought it would be _this central for their lives. It was only a sea bird, after all – yet apparently not so for the Princes of Dol Amroth. Blue and silver and white... and swans in every size and shape could be seen everywhere, from the heavy velvet curtains, now pulled aside to let in the golden light of the mid-afternoon sun, through the wondrous, circular pattern of the marble-paved floor down to the embroidery on the people's clothes. Even on the simple tunic the chambermaid had selected for him to wear in the presence of the Prince and his family._

Twenty-four slender columns framed the great hall, carved in the shape of trees of white marble, dividing it into a main room and two narrow side corridors where the servants were waiting for their orders and the princely guard kept cautious eyes on everything. On the opposite end of the hall, where it formed a beautiful apsis, there was a dais in the form of a half-circle, and six broad, flat steps led up to it. Upon that dais stood the twin thrones of the Prince and the Princess of Dol Amroth, and on both sides of them the other members of the family stood.

Prince Adrahil looked even more stern and displeased than in the courtyard while greeting his son, but Andrahar was not one to be easily frightened. Still, he knew he should not make an enemy of Imrahil's father if he wanted to remain here with his only friend – and he wanted that more than anything in his whole life. Thus he offered the Prince the greatest courtesy known in his former home: he knelt and touched his brow to the marble floor before the Prince's feet.

Apparently, this was a somewhat unfamiliar greeting for the people of Dol Amroth, at least according to the gasps and murmurs that arose all around him. Imrahil gave him a slight nudge with a booted foot and Andrahar rose, facing the family of his friend warily, but determined to look as refined as he was able to manage.

On the Prince's left (Imrahil later explained him that having one's life-mate on the heart-side was an Elvish tradition that his family kept since the days of Galador, the First Prince) the Lady Olwen sat, as soft and calm as her husband was hard and irritated. Unlike her husband and her son, who both had the chiseled features, bluish-black hair and sea-grey eyes of true Númenórean heritage, her face was oval-shaped and her hair and her eyes were dark brown. Andrahar remembered Imrahil having mentioned that his mother was not a Dúnadan but came from the natives of Dor-en-Ernil, called the Eredrim, that had already been there before the foundation of Gondor.

She wore a long gown in Dol Amroth blue under her loose silver-hued overtunic that had very wide arms that swept the floor as she was sitting with her hands folded on her lap. Her hair was twisted into a loose knot, tucked neatly under a blue velvet cap, richly embroidered with a flower-pattern in silver, but what little could be seen of it, was interwoven with white threads. Though eight years younger than her husband, coming from a lesser race made her show signs of aging already.

On the side of the Princess a slender young woman stood, similarly dressed, only her long hair flowing unbraided and unadorned down her back. It reached below her knee, as far as Andrahar could guess. She had the raven hair and grey eyes of the Prince but the soft features of Lady Olwen, so she could only be Imrahil's sister. As sweet and gentle as she might have looked, somehow Andrahar had the feeling that it would not be a good thing to raise her ire and decided to be careful around her.

Another black-haired, grey-eyed woman, this one considerably older as the barely noticeable hardness in her noble features revealed, stood on the Prince's right. She was dressed like the Princess, yet without the rich embroidery that adorned the Lady Olwen's clothes. There was no silver yet in her hair, but her eyes were like pieces of ice and her lips pressed together to a thin line. Andrahar needed no help to recognize the Lady Tirathiel, based on Imrahil's hair-rising tales about her, though he had always suspected that his friend...had coloured the bare facts a little .

Nevertheless, there was no way he could have mistaken the Iron Lady of Dol Amroth for someone else. Those icy eyes measured him with open suspicion, and he knew it would not be easy to win the Lady's support. For support he needed if he wanted to dwell under the Prince's roof, unless he wanted Imrahil to leave Dol Amroth out of sheer stubbornness - which he did not. 'Twas bad enough that he had no true home himself, he did not want Imrahil to share his fate.

"Welcome to Dol Amroth," the Prince finally said in an almost civil manner. "Since my son forgot to tell us your name, mayhap you will do the courtesy yourself?"

"I am called Andrahar, my Lord," he answered, thankful for his swarthy skin that hid the blush he felt heating his face. The Prince raised an elegant eyebrow.

"Are you called so or is it your true name?" he asked. Andrahar suppressed the anger raising all too quickly in him. This was too much like an interrogation for his comfort.

"It is my name, my Lord," he answered with as much politeness as he could master. The Prince nodded; apparently, the answer satisfied him.

"Which House are you from?" he continued questioning. "For your name indicates that you must have at least some Númenórean blood in you, even though your looks tell otherwise."

Andrahar clenched his teeth in despair. He had hoped _this question would come later on, when he already made an acceptable impression on the Prince. Revealing that he was an outcast bastard son might make his stay in Dol Amroth a very short one. But lying to the Prince was out of the question. He needed to prove trustworthy, so that he would be allowed to stay close to Imrahil – he simply could not begin his life here with a lie._

"If I _had_ a House, my Lord," he replied in as even a voice as he could, "I would not be here, asking for a place to live in."

To his surprise, the Prince seemed undisturbed by this revelation. He only nodded his understanding and went on with his questions.

"Then we have to find something for you to do to make yourself useful," the Lord Adrahil said. "You are good with weapons, I presume. Young men of Umbar and Harad usually are."

"So I am, my Lord," Andrahar replied, somewhat more confident now. "With swords and knives and daggers and bows and scimitars... you name them and I shall wield them. I have had to defend myself since I was very young."

"You still _are_ very young, Andrahar of Harad," the Prince replied mildly. "As for your swordsmanship, I will be the judge of how good you really are. Besides, I have enough good soldiers in Dol Amroth, I have no true need for one hot-headed youngling who probably would never follow orders properly."

Andrahar paled considerably under the guise of his dark skin, for this could mean that the Prince would deny him a stay under his roof. But Adrahil continued.

"You speak Westron well. Almost as if it could be your mother tongue. Can you also speak the native tongue of the Haradrim?"

"All sixteen dialects of it," Andrahar replied without thinking. "My f... the Lord in whose house I lived as a child had connections as far down as Far Harad. He often had visitors who spoke strange tongues, and they demanded to be spoken to in their own fashion, so we all had to learn every single one."

"Sixteen dialects," the Lady Tirathiel murmured, speaking for the first time. "We only know of seven or eight of them, my Lord..."

"Indeed," Adrahil said, "and 'twould be useful to study the rest of them, would it not? That can be arranged, I hope. Can you write, Andrahar?"

"Of course," Andrahar felt a little insulted. "I know the letters that are used in Westron _and the symbols for Haradric... well, that of the speech which is used in noble houses. Most of the dialects do not even use any written form."_

Surprisingly, the Prince smiled at him. It was a somewhat cold smile, but a smile nevertheless, and it even showed something akin to acceptance.

"Well then," Adrahil said, "I believe you have just made yourself a very valuable member of my court. I shall allow you to rest today and get familiar with the castle, but tomorrow you will report to my head scribe in the library and work with him on a book about Haradric languages for the next year or so."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Andrahar had always been good in mapping his surroundings and find back every way he had ever gone - in fact, his life often depended on this very useful ability. Of course, Dol Amroth Castle (or the Swanburg, as it often was called) was a lot more confusing place as a noble house in Umbar, but still way less of a maze than any Haradric bazaar. So it only took him the afternoon and the early evening to get his bearings, and he had no difficulties in finding his way to the library in the next morning.

It made things easier, certainly, that he was given the esquire's room next to Imrahil's chambers, for thus he only had to walk to the end of the corridor and climb the winding stone staircase to the upper level of the main building, right above the princely wing. There he gave the heavy wooden door a sharp knock and entered, without waiting for an invitation.

The scent of old leather, ink and parchment greeted him, and he made a wry face, books never being of much interest to him. And books there were, by the gods, more than any person could ever hope to read. Narrow rooms with high ceilings, framed by stuffed shelves, followed each other, their endless rows broken only by the tall windows and the small riding desks before them. Other desks, these tall and narrow with tilted surfaces, stood here and there - he knew that these were writing desks, the scribes of Dol Amroth obviously preferred writing in Elf-fashion, standing.

A tall, dark-haired man with a pale face and narrow shoulders stood at one of these desks and looked up at his arrival, putting down the quill pen at once. His eyes were dark, too, and his features seemed somehow... familiar, which was impossible, since Andrahar had never seen anyone from the Prince's people before.

"Master Andrahar?" the scribe asked in a soft voice that had a slight accent in it, even though he spoke Westron flawlessly. At Andrahar's nod he continued. "Prince Adrahil let me know that you would be aiding me in learning more about the Haradric tongues. Is this correct?"

"If you are his head scribe, then yea, it is," Andrahar answered with a shrug. The scribe looked at him in unsmiling amusement.

"That I am, indeed. Head scribe Melpomaen my name is."

Andrahar gave him a suspicious look. The ears were certainly not pointed enough, and his eyes were dark, too, yet... "Are you an Elf?" he blurted out.

The scribe tilted his head on the side and seemed even more amused, though he still smiled not. Not even with his eyes. "Would it be a problem if I were?" he asked seriously. Andrahar shrugged.

"Elves are deceptive and untrustworthy. Everyone knows that."

"I would reconsider saying such things in this house," Melpomaen warned him, obviously not insulted at all. "Prince Adrahil is an Elf-friend, and so are his whole family... not to mention that they all have Elven blood in their veins. Not too much, certainly, but it runs deep. Deep enough for the Elf-Lord of Edhellond to allow them to visit his house."

Andrahar frowned. The scribe certainly had an Elven name, yet he spoke not like an Elf – well, as _he_ would expect an Elf to speak, anyway. "_Are_ you an Elf, then?" he pressed further.

The amusement fled from the scribe's manner. "Not entirely," he answered flatly. "Not enough for them to accept me."

Andrahar gave him another suspicious look. And at the second sight he all of a sudden realized why Melpomaen seemed so familiar to him. He had already seen a face very much like the scribe's the day before.

"You are related to the Lady Olwen, are you?" he said. "Are you her younger brother?"

For the first time, the scribe smiled. It was a tight little smile, yet a true one, nevertheless. "Nay," he replied in obvious amusement. "I am her great-uncle."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

TBC


	2. Pawns and Symbols 2

**PAWNS AND SYMBOLS**

**by Soledad**

**Disclaimer, rating and A/N: see Part 1.**

II.

The following moons were filled with work for Andrahar. Every morn he would seek out the Elf in the library (for he kept calling the head scribe thusly, at least when he was alone or with Imrahil, not liking the long and peculiar Elvish name) and sit there 'til noon, going over endless wordlists, correcting mispronounced words, showing him how to write from the right to the left as it was required in Haradric. Most of the time Lady Tirathiel accompanied them too, and Andrahar developed a healthy respect for the wise, proud and tireless woman. Sometimes the orphaned niece of the Lady, a shy, quiet young girl named Nimrien, came with her and listened to the harsh-sounding Haradric words with rapt interest.

Every once in a week Imrahil was ordered by the Prince to partake in these lessons, for Adrahil wanted his son and heir to become fluent in Haradric, as he was to handle Haradrian dignitaries in the future. Whenever he appeared, the dull work became full of bright colours for Andrahar, even though he knew all too well how much his friend would prefer to ride out or practice swordplay with him.

Not that Imrahil would share his dismay against books and other scholarly activities – far from it. But Andrahar's company meant adventure for the restless princeling, and there was truly naught adventurous in a library, bent over some obscure Haradric text. Still, he managed to endure it somehow, and at least the evenings were theirs to do as they please.

Naturally, Imrahil had to attend to regular fight lessons, for to become the Lord of the Swan Knights, Dol Amroth's finest warriors, required that he was at least as good with his weapons as any of them. Andrahar accompanied him to these lessons and watched his training with an unreadable face – until Armsmaster Ornendil decided to give him a good workout, in order to see what the "wild youngling" was capable of.

His amazement over the young Haradrim's skills was beyond limits.

"That lad is better than any one I have ever seen," he reported to the Prince, still a little shocked. "Certainly, he needs a lot of practice with the long swords our people use, but with his own weapons, he is almost invictible. He is wasted in the library, my Lord.

"He is most valuable in the library," Adrahil corrected, "But when he truly is that good with weapons, I do not mind if you give him some proper training. We shall see whether he is able to follow orders as well, but at least he will work out some of his inner fire – and keep Imrahil on his toes."

"He will follow any order that comes from Imri, " said the Lady Olwen quietly. "He would die for our son at any time."

"He is Haradrim," Adrahil shrugged. "'Tis their way. Imrahil saved his life, therefore his life belongs to Imrahil, unless the debt is repaid in equal measure. Or else he would lose his honour, and that would be worse than dead for a Haradrim."

"There is more behind his devotion to Imri than simple custom, I am certain of that," Lady Olwen replied. "What ever it is, I find comfort in knowing that our son is fiercely protected. With his hot-headed nature, he shall sorely need a trusted companion."

"I can train the lad to become the young prince's own Armsmaster in a few years," Ornendil said, though doubt was clearly written in his tanned features, "but do you truly want a Haradrim among the Swan Knights, my Lord? Would it be wise to reveal the secrets of our defences to one of our enemies?"

"He is not our enemy – he is Imri's friend," princess Finduilas, also part of all important family decisions ever since her recently coming of age, injected. "And he is not a Haradrim native, either. He must have at least _some_ Númenórean blood. Most noble families of Harad have."

"Yea, the blood of the Black Númenóreans, no doubt," Ornendil answered sourly. "Much good it would do him... or us, for that."

"His blood alone does not determine who he is," Adrahil said, exchanging a long, meaningful look with his Lady. "His deeds do. I am willing to give him a chance to prove himself – mayhap such thing will move Imrahil towards more a responsible behaviour."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Thus thing remained very much the same for many moons. Between the library and Master Ornendil, Andrahar was rather busy all day, but he did not mind; not as long as nearly all his activities involved Imrahil as well. The young prince, however, grew impatient more quickly, and soon he began to plan a little trip to Gate Town: the easternmost and outermost district of Dol Amroth that lay on the low saddle just inside the main landward entry through the city walls.

Being the dirtiest and rowdiest neighbourhood in Dol Amroth, it is still kept finer than the quarters in most other cities and attracted the adventurous sons of the noble families in great numbers. It was a most colourful district to say the least, and thought people seldom got robbed and even less frequently killed, Prince Adrahil forbade his son to visit it without proper escort and supervision.

Of course, an escort would have made nigh impossible to pay a proper visit to the famous taverns of Gate Town: _Arthoniel's Tavern, _The Black Spar_ or _The Sign of the Blind Voyager_. And since at least irregular visits were considered a sign of independent adulthood among the noble youth, Imrahil was eager to prove himself in their eyes._

The golden opportunity presented itself when – some seven moons after Andrahar's arrival to Dol Amroth – the Prince and his Lady took their daughter to Edhellond, following the invitation of Lord Gildor, who had just recently returned home after a long absence, to the yearly Autumn Festival. This was one of the greatest feast among the mostly Silvan subjects of Edhellond's Lord, and the first time that princess Finduilas attended to it as an adult – something that had great importance for the Elves, and Lord Gildor, a friend of the princely House since its very foundation, intended to give her a grand celebration.

Imrahil was not invited along, however, for his father and he were not in speaking terms, due to his latest escapades – happening mostly in Gate Town and costing the Prince a considerable amount of coin. Needless to say that he was bitterly disappointed and angry beyond reason. 'Twas quite obvious to Andrahar that his friend burned hotly for the Elf-lord – thus he begun to hate Gildor Inglorion ere he had even caught as much as a glimpse of him.

Therefore Imrahil had been petulant and miserable ever since the Prince's decision was declared, and wanted his revenge – and he wanted Andrahar's company by doing so. Andrahar, would be willing to go wherever his friend wanted, even though he felt that at his age of almost sixteen Imrahil should show some more responsibility towards his duties as the Heir of Dol Amroth. In Harad, a young man of sixteen summers was considered an adult, ready to found his own household, and in his honest moments Andrahar admitted that his friend was a spoiled brat.

Nevertheless, Imrahil saved his life, gave him a home - and captured his heart, and thus Andrahar was willing to partake in anything Imrahil was up to, no mater how foolish or dangerous it might have been. Besides, 'twas his duty to bring the young prince back unhurt from those trips, at least in his own eyes.

Imrahil had shown great strategic sense (worth of much better use, in fact) in planning their several days long trip to the pleasure houses. He planned to do it after the departure of Lady Tirathiel to Minas Tirith, where the Lady was to copy a rare, ancient Elvish book - and, as Prince Adrahil mentioned dryly to his wife during a private conversation, 'to frighten the Steward's son out of his wits'.

Seeing Andrahar's surprise, Imrahil later explained him that frightening was probably not the right word for the strange relationship between the Lady and the Lord Denethor, but people who knew them both mostly agreed that Tirathiel was the only person the son of Ecthelion was wary of. They were both scholars and well-versed in ancient lore, but of vastly different opinions most of the time, and Tirathiel never let herself be frightened by the dour Heir of Gondor. Some even said that they had been promised to each other, ere Tirathiel returned to Dol Amroth to raise the orphaned daughter of her brother.

Whether or not this was true, no-one could tell, yet it added to the Lady's authority greatly, and every time she travelled to Minas Tirith for some perfectly innocent reason, the whispers arose anew. This time she planned to remain there several moons, taking young Nimrien with her, thus Imrahil could be certain that she would not unexpectedly return from Minas Tirith and disturb his carefully laid-out plans. Now there remained one hindrance only in their way to get to Gate Town for the entirety of the Autumn Festival – Master Melpomaen. The head scribe still kept Andrahar in the library from early morn till noon, working with him on the seemingly never-ending book about Haradric languages, customs and history.

"You will be working on it in then years' time still," Imrahil growled. "Surely, he can give you a few days' leave for a proper autumn feast if you ask him."

"Not when I tell him where and what way I intend to celebrate," Andrahar pointed out. Imrahil shrugged.

"Then tell him not," he said dismissively. Andrahar's eyes darkened to burning coals.

"Imrahil of Dol Amroth," he said in a cold voice, "are you asking me to tell him lies? If so, then I hall have to disappoint you. I own you my life, and I would gladly lay it down for you, but you cannot ask me to besmirch my honour – what little there still is of it – only that you can visit your favoured whores."

Imrahil glared at him, unbelievingly. Never in the seven moons they had known each other had Andrahar spoken to him thusly. He felt chastised – which he liked not – and betrayed by his best friend. It occurred to him not how one-sided their friendship had been, with Andrahar doing what ever he wanted, without as much as a word of complaint... till now.

"I asked you not to lie," he replied petulantly, "only to... keep some details to yourself. But if you would let me down, 'tis fine with me. Forget I ever asked. I shall go without you." And with that, out hw stomped, leaving a shocked and deeply hurt Andrahar behind.

For several long moments, the young Haradrim was completely numb. Never had Imrahil willingly hurt him before, and he did it now for what? For a chance to get to the pleasure houses of Gate Town, where he would throw around the good coin of his father for something Andrahar would give him gladly out of love.

It hurt. It hurt so much that Andrahar needed all his iron will to force back the tears welling up in his burning eyes. He had fallen hard for the young prince, from the very moment on Imrahil freed him from the hands of the angry mob in Umbar's bazaar. Yet since Imrahil had clearly no such feelings for him, revealing his love would have destroyed their friendship, and he could not risk _that_. Therefore Andrahar did his best to hide his yearning and his heart-ache – and succeeded. No-one ever knew how much strength it cost him.

Yet now Imrahil was angry with him, ready to slip out of the Castle and vanish for days in Gate Town without him if he must, and Andrahar knew he could not allow that to happen. 'Twas simply not right for a prince to run out of his own, for even inside the safe borders of Dol Amroth, there always were perils. Thus he had to persuade the Elf somehow into giving him the leave he needed. And he thought to know a way to reach his goal.

In his years in the bazaar of Umbar he grown accustomed to paying for favours he could not achieve through stealing and threats with his own body. It gave him little to no pleasure being used that way, but he had learnt it in the hard way how to please a male customer, and he knew he was good at it. So good, in fact, that it almost earned him life-long slavery in the hands of a possessive Khandian prince. Thus he was reasonably sure that he could service the Elf well enough to get what he wanted in exchange.

The thought of returning to the life of a street whore pained him greatly, as he hoped to have left that kind of existence behind for ever. But he could not let Imrahil down. Thus he braced himself for the inevitable, and in the next morn he addressed the head scribe without a preamble.

"Master Melpomaen, I would require a few days of leave from my duties."

The Elf looked up from the parchment he was bewritting and arched an elegant eyebrow.

"What for?" he asked. "As far as I am told, you are perfectly free in the evenings to do as you please. In fact, with Master Ornendil accompanying the Prince on his way to Edhellond, you not even have to attend to fight lessons anymore."

"'Tis true," Andrahar admitted, shifting his weight unhappily. "Still, I would wish a few days for myself to celebrate the Autumn Festival."

That Elven eyebrow climbed even higher, though Andrahar had not thought such thing to be possible. Apparently, Elves – even the not-quite-true sort of them – were more limber than he gave them credit for.

"You mean the young prince wishes to visit the pleasure houses in Gate Town and wants you to go with him?" seeing Andrahar's shocked expression, the head scribe gave him a wry little smile. "I might lead a solitary life, young one, yet I am no fool. Nor is Prince Adrahil unaware of the lecherous adventures of his only son. Though it surprises me even less that you would be willing to go with the young prince."

"I have no interest in the whores of Gate Town," Andrahar replied indignantly – which was the truth. He had been long enough in the trade himself... and women never interested him.

"Nay," the Elf nodded in agreement, "But you would do anything to please Imrahil."

For the second time within mere moments, Andrahar was too shocked to give answer at once. Melpomaen watched him with keen, dark eyes and that tight little smile of him.

"Had you thought me that blind, young one?" he asked gently. "In my long life I have seen much, and little does surprise me or escape my attention. You are desperately in love with Imrahil... there is no shame in it, no shame at all. We cannot choose whom we feel in love with. It simply happens, and we have to live with it – or die of broken heart. Your heart, I deem, is too strong to be broken, so you must find a way to live with your hidden feelings."

"They are not all that well-hidden, it seems," said Andrahar bitterly. Melpomaen tilted his head to one side with a strange, bird-like movement that Andrahar would have associated with Silvan Elves, had he ever seen any.

"Oh, they are... for most people. I am simply accustomed to notice signs others would not. 'Tis the advantage of leading the live of an observer. Though I am almost certain that Lady Olwen would take notice one day, too," he added thoughtfully, and Andrahar paled.

"By _Khaiar_ and the _keremets_!" the Haradric curse escaped him in his shock. "I am a dead man, then."

"You know the Princess not well enough, or you would not fear for your life," the head scribe answered calmly. "She might not have Elven blood in her veins, yet she and her whole family lived in the neighbourhood of Elves long enough to have their views changed greatly, compared with that of other peoples of Gondor. Besides," he added wryly, "I doubt that you could corrupt the young prince too much anymore."

Melpomaen's easy understanding shocked and surprised Andrahar at the same time – and it made him hope that he might get his much-needed leave, after all.

"What would it take, then, for you to let me go with Imrahil for a few days?" he asked bluntly. "I have not much to offer – unless you need someone to warm your empty bed for a while. I am said to be quite good in that sort of things."

The head scribe put down his feather quill that he was holding during their whole conversation and gave him an icy glare. Gone was the friendly, compassionate look – 'twas a very annoyed Elf who looked at Andrahar as if he were some sort of disgusting insect.

"I take no advantage of my charges, young one, and what ever you might think, you are my charge, as long as you are assigned to me by the Prince to work here," he said, his voice cutting like a sharp blade. "Besides, how would you know whether my bed is empty or not? I am known to be very discreet in my affairs – had I someone waiting for me in my chambers, be assured that you would know naught of it."

The swift change shocked Andrahar even more. Rightly were Elves compared with large cats: smooth and sleek in one moment, slashing your throat open with their claws in the next. He wondered briefly if Melpomaen kept any weapons under that writing desk of his.

"Forgive me, Master Scribe," he murmured, "I meant no offence. But I need a favour from you, and I cannot offer aught else than my... services."

To his surprise, the chilly wrath had gone from those dark eyes just as swiftly as it came. The head scribe sighed, then shook his head, and all of a sudden, the expression upon his pale face became very sad.

"You should not lower yourself thusly, young one. Not for such worthless goal. Were you trying to sell yourself in exchange for the young prince's life, I would understand and admiring such sacrifice. But giving up your pride just so that he can be whoring around as he pleases – 'tis folly."

"He is angry and hurt, for his father let him not to go visiting the Elves," Andrahar murmured, "and he would go, whether I go with him or not. I cannot let him run free in Gate Town, without protection."

Melpomaen gave him a long, intense look that felt as if those dark eyes would burn through his very scull. Then the head scribe sighed again.

"I believe 'tis time the for young prince to consider the possible ramifications of his thoughtless deeds. Sit down on that chair over there, young one, and let me braid your hair – 'tis unruly once again. Then seek out your hot-headed friend and try talking to him. If in the next morn he still wants to go, and you still insist on going with him, I shall give you leave – for the price you named."

Completely bewildered now, Andrahar obeyed nevertheless, allowing the Elf to braid his hair - which took a much longer time than he had expected. When he was done, Melpomaen simply turned away from him, returning to his writing.

"You can go now, young one," he said, without looking up from his work. "I have no use for you this morn."

Andrahar shook his head in astonishment and left the library, in search for Imrahil. When the third or fourth servant whom he encountered on his way was giving him a strange stare, he began to feel uncomfortable and turned in to one of the guest chambers, since those commonly had large mirrors in the sleeping area.

The image in the mirror was like a blow in his face. His coarse black hair was ordered in thin braids, like the tresses of the cheapest whores that sold themselves in the shadowy streets of the port.

His first instinct would have been to break the mirror with his bare fist. His second one to go back to the library and break the nose of that smug Elf. But after several deep breaths he actually understood the message behind Melpomaen's seeming cruelty. With grim determination, he left the guest chambers again, to seek out Imrahil.

TBC


	3. Pawns and Symbols 3

**PAWNS AND SYMBOLS**

**by Soledad**

**Disclaimer and A/N: see Part 1.**

**Rating: PG-13, at the very least, for this chapter, because of highly disturbing topics. Not for the faint-hearted, this one.**

III.

The Heir of Dol Amroth still was in a petulant mood, yet the appearance of his friend shook him out of it in no time.

"What is the meaning of this, Andra?" he asked with a frown. "Have you gone mad?"

"This?" Andrahar touched the notorious braids softly. "Oh, 'tis only what you are making me, my prince. Care not for it. You can be content: for I shall get my leave from Master Melpomaen, thus we can go to Gate Town during the Autumn Festival, just as you wanted. All I have to do for it is share his bed."

Imrahil shook his head, in stunned disbelief.

"I cannot believe that Master Melpomaen would demand such thing from you," he said.

Andrahar shrugged. "He did not. I offered."

If possible, Imrahil became even more stunned from this casual remark. Certainly, he already noticed that Andrahar showed little interest for the fair maidens of Dol Amroth – still, he had not thought that it meant that he would...

"Why ever would you do so?" he voiced his bewilderment. Andrahar gave him a sour look.

"You wanted to go to your whores. You would go without me – I cannot allow that. You are a prince, the only heir of Dol Amroth, you need to be protected wherever you go. I needed a favour, and I had naught else to offer in exchange."

At this point Imrahil was completely unable to give any answer at all, staring at his friend in open-mouthed shock. Andrahar laughed – 'twas a bitter, unpleasant sound.

"You think that this is the first time that I have paid for a favour this way? How, do you believe,  I survived in the bazaars 'til I grew strong enough to wield a sword?"

"You were..." Imrahil opened and closed his month twice ere ha was able to utter the words. Andrahar finished for him.

"A street whore, aye, that I was. And before that, I was the bed slave of a rich merchant – 'til I could flee."

"You never told me about _that," murmured Imrahil. Andrahar shrugged again. All of a sudden, he felt incredibly tired._

"I did not want you to know. You have had a sheltered life, Imri, you grew up loved and protected – I feared that you would turn your back on me if you learnt what sort of life I had to lead ere we met. Though I hoped to have left it behind me for good."

"You have," Imrahil assured, slowly recovering from his shock. "I would never ask you to do aught like that for my sake."

Andrahar sighed and shook his head. How was he supposed to explain his beloved friend, the spoiled young prince of a strong, well-protected realm how things worked in the Haradric clans?

"You do not understand, Imri," he began patiently. "You saved my life... according to Haradric customs that means that you own it, until I have the chance to repay you in the same manner. If you want something, 'tis my duty to see that you get it, regardless of the cost."

"But you are my friend, not my slave!" Imrahil protested. Andrahar rolled his eyes heavenwards but controlled his temper. 'Twas not Imrahil's fault that he could not think as one of the Haradrim.

"Listen, Imri... 'Tis called a blood debt, and 'tis binding as long as it is not paid properly. I was sired by the head of one of the noblest families in Harad, and though I was born in the wrong bed, honour was hammered into me at a very young age. I cannot turn my back on my upbringing, nor on my blood. 'Tis simply not something we do."

"How did you end up on the street when you are so high-born, then?" Imrahil asked.

"He from whose loins I was born and whose name I am not allowed to speak was of high birth, indeed," Andrahar replied slowly. "He was what your people call a Black Númenórean – the people of Harad call them _tarkil_. As you know, Harad is not a united realm but the sum of several dozen small city-states, ruled by men of great wealth of power. These cities, though they do ally themselves with the Black Land at times, also often war among themselves, and members of the powerful families on the loser side are sold into slavery afterwards. So it happened to my mother, and she was bought by an older man from the winner side – a most powerful and proud man, whose wife died many years earlier and who often took young female slaves to his bed to warm it."

"Your father?" Imrahil asked, but Andrahar shook his head.

"I have no father, not by Haradric law. My mother was of noble birth herself, well-bred and well-taught, and her master grew to like her very much. So much, that when I was born, he ordered me to be taught and raised as a son – much to the dismay of his legitimate sons who were grown men at that time already, with families of their own. Thus I was taught everything a Haradric nobleman had to learn, customs and lore and weapons' skills, for he intended to raise me into the status of a true son as soon as I reached First Maturity."

"Which would be at the age of...?" Imrahil trailed off. Andrahar smiled grimly.

"Twelve. Unfortunately for me, he died less than a year earlier. My mother was accused of having poisoned him, strangled publicly before the house and thrown out into the town fosse as a meal for the stray dogs, and I was sold to a Khandian tribe chieftain who had a residence in that town."

Imrahil shivered. "Was he the one, who..." Andrahar nodded.

"Aye. Khandian tribes are usually lead by the richest merchant among them, who is also their lead sorcerer at the same time. 'Tis their custom to have not only female bed slaves but also young boys to satisfy their needs. And I was considered particularly desirable by their standards."

"Why?" asked Imrahil; then he hurriedly added. "I mean, you are handsome, and I am certain that you were a pretty child, but what was it that attracted them so much?"

Andrahar reached out and took his friend's pale, slender hand into his own broader, darker one.

"Among your people, I am seen as swarthy," he answered with a wry smile, "but among the Haradrim, my skin counts as very fair. And the people of Khand, who are even darker than the Haradrim, almost black in fact, fair-skinned women and boys are highly desired. Thus I was taken into my new master's _parda_ and kept there as his most valued _huri_ for nearly seven seasons."

Knowing that Haradric climate had only two seasons, the dry one and the rainy one, Imrahil quickly came to the realization that his friend must have been a bed slave for three and a half years. Andrahar paused for a moment, his dark eyes looking far away, in an other time and an other place.

"He was not a cruel master," he finally continued, "even though he liked to share me with his friends and with the guests he needed a favour from. Had he known that I was good with weapons, he would have guarded me more closely, and I might never have found the chance to flee."

"What would have become of you then?" Imrahil almost feared to ask. Andrahar shrugged with the customary fatalism of his ancestors.

"They usually keep _hurim_ 'til they reach Second Maturity," to Imrahil's questioning look, he explained. "The age I am right now. After reaching that particular age, the _hurim_ are castrated and become common house slaves. This way they are worthless for anything else and not being able to lead a life as others do, they seldom flee from their master's household."

Imrahil stared at his friend in horror. He had heard hair-raising tales about the Southron realms earlier, but he had never imagined the truth would be this much worse.

"This is not a common practice in all Harad," Andrahar added. "Only the Khandians do so openly... well, and some _truly rich and rotten Haradrim chieftains. The sons of my... sire knew this, of course – this way they hoped to set an end to the bastard line and make a huge bounty at the same time. My master paid a small fortune for me – after all, I was not only fair-skinned and pretty but well-bred, too."_

"How did you then escape?" asked Imrahil. Andrahar laughed again, and again, it was a harsh, cheerless sound.

"Almost by accident, to tell the truth. My master allowed one of his clients to... borrow me for a few days. This client was a man known of his... unusual tastes. I was used to certain things by then, but when I saw the tools he had prepared for his pleasure, I knew that I might not leave his house again. Unfortunately for him, at that time I could already use almost every thing to defend myself. I killed him with a tong that lay at the fire already, then under the guise of the feast that was going on in his house, I slipped out with his purse full of golden coins and vanished in the bazaar."

Imrahil swallowed hard. Imagining his friend, still hardly more than a child, escaping torture only by killing someone with a red-hot iron tong was almost too much for him to bear. Andra had been right – his life _had been sheltered, and he was nothing but a spoiled brat. He only hoped that Andra would forgive him his selfish actions._

"Of course, the purse was stolen on the first night I spent hiding in a merchant's back tent," Andrahar added with another cheerless grin, "and I had no other choice than to sell myself for food and clothes and a dirty, bug-infested mattress to sleep on for the next year. There was a perfume merchant who had at least a dozen boys like myself to work for him as pleasure slaves. For we _were_ his slaves, even though he did not own us legally. He sold us to rich clients, collected our price and gave us hardly enough to survive."

"Did you kill him, too?" Imrahil asked. He certainly would have understood had the answer been positive. But Andrahar shook his head.

"Nay... he had friends all over the bazaar, even in the bazaars of other towns. They would have hunted me down and killed me, regardless of where I fled.  Nay, I chose to rob the house of a rich client and left the town with a caravan that needed a horse boy. In the end, I came to Umbar, and the caravan leader, who noticed how good I was with weapons, sent me to one of his business friends. A merchant who also owned several pirate ships."

"You were a pirate, too?" Imrahil asked, stunned. His friend suddenly grinned again, but this time, his grin was open and honest.

"I have trouble with heights, as you know. Nay, he wanted to turn me into an assassin. But I wished not to kill people for no personal reason, so I left him and went to the bazaar again. This time, I already had a certain... reputation, other than just my pretty face, so things became a little easier for me... as soon as my hair had grown out again."

"Your hair?" Imrahil shook his head in amazement. Andrahar sighed, a little impatiently.

"Slaves are shorn bald, Imri – this way you can see right away whom you are dealing with. For a Haradric noble, 'tis the greatest humiliation possible. The sons of noble houses consider their hair as a symbol of their rank – not a single hair is cut from their heads in their whole life. I had been shorn bald for eight seasons," he added softly, the pain in his dark eyes clearly visible. "Had my sire lived 'til my First Maturity, I'd be wearing warrior's braids by now, not those of a street whore."

"Then why _are_ you not wearing them now?" Imrahil asked.

"Because I am no warrior," Andrahar replied simply. "Your father the Prince does not trust me enough to let me become one of his men, and mayhap he is right. For in the end, I am still little more than those whores you are so eager to visit in Gate Town."

"Nay, you are not," Imrahil said quietly, thoroughly ashamed. "You are my friend, and I regret deeply how I treated you. I shall not allow you to sacrifice your pride just so that I can have my fun. Get rid of these awful braids, I beg you."

"I cannot do so," said Andrahar flatly. "You still do not understand, do you? I offered, and Master Melpomaen accepted. I have to keep up my side of the bargain, or I shall lose what little honour I still possess."

"That is a foolish and barbaric way of thinking!" the prince cried in dismay. Andrahar shrugged, his eyes hard and dark like pieces of obsidian.

"I come from a foolish and barbaric people. This is our code of honour, and we would rather die than break it. You can prepare to leave on the morrow. I shall pay the appointed price tonight. For I gave a promise, and my word means something to me."

"I shall _not_ go," Imrahil said stubbornly. "I would rather not see Gate Town ever again than let you do this."

"'Tis your choice," replied Andrahar, "though it will change nothing."

With that, he bowed and left Imrahil's chambers, returning to his own, small room. There he took a knife with a very thin, slightly bowed blade out of a small, wooden casket and began to cut off those cursed braids, one after another.

TBC

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

_parda is the Hindi word for harem_

_huris are originally ever-young, eternally virgin females Mohammed promised his faithful follower in Paradise if they died for their beliefs_

I realize that the expressions do not exactly match the situation described in this part, but these were the closest ones I could think of.


	4. Pawns and Symbols 4

PAWNS AND SYMBOLS

**by Soledad**

**Disclaimer and A/N:** see Part 1.

**Rating:** PG-13, for this chapter, because of some disturbing topics. But not as bad as the last one.

IV.

When – later on that evening – Andrahar finally sought out Melpomaen in the library again, the head scribe made no remark on his clumsily-shorn hair. He only offered a seat to the young man, then sat himself, folding his long, elegant hands upon the tabletop, and looked at his visitor with intense eyes.

"So you have come to me, after all," he said. "I thought you had the guts to confront the young Prince."

"I did," Andrahar said. Melpomaen arched an eyebrow.

"And he still wants to go to Gate Town? Mayhap I held him in too high esteem."

"Nay, said Andrahar with a heavy sigh, "he does not want to go."

"That is a relief," Melpomaen replied. "I would hate to know that the future Lord of Dorn-en-Ernil is a selfish brat. Why have you come, then?"

"We had a bargain," Andrahar shrugged. "He might have changed his mind, but I promised to go with him wherever he wants to go during the Festival. I still need that leave."

"In case he changes his mind again?" the head scribe asked. Andrahar nodded grimly, but Melpomaen shook his head. "He will not. He might be stubborn and petulant, but his word means something to him. As I see it, you have been released from our bargain. Besides," he added with a grim expression upon his face, "I would have had a very… unpleasant conversation with him, had he not changed his mind."

That surprised Andrahar a little. "Why?" he asked.

"I have been his tutor," said the Elf, "therefore 'tis my responsibility too, what sort of Man – what sort of leader – he will become. I wish not for our people to have a Lord who would sell his best friend for a visit to the pleasure houses. He needs to learn responsibility – he will not remain a child much longer."

"So you never intended to accept my offer?" Andrahar still felt a little suspicious. Melpomaen laughed – it was a strangely warm, pleasant sound.

"I already told you: I do _not_ take advantage of my charges. I might lead a solitary life, but that does not make me desperate enough to sleep with children."

"I am no child, either!" Andrahar replied indignantly. The Elf smiled, but in his dark eyes there was sorrow.

"Compared to me you are, young one."

"Among my own people I would be considered a grown man," Andrahar pointed out with a stubborn face.

"Aye, but you are not among your own people any more," the head scribe reminded him patiently. "The Lords of Dol Amroth measure time differently than lesser Men – and they live longer, too. Hence childhood in Dol Amroth is longer than elsewhere as well. You are of Imrahil's age, are you?"

"I have seen sixteen summers, aye," Andrahar nodded. "At home, I would be looking for a wife already… well, I would if I were not an outcast. It would be expected of me to sire heirs for my House – if I _had_ a House, that is."

"I remember talking about these customs with you," said Melpomaen. "You told me that bastard sons were not allowed to have their own families, right?"

"That is the custom, aye," replied Andrahar. "That way the rightful heirs can protect their position. Bastard sons are usually sold to powerful allies of the family as bodyguards or bed slaves. Or both, 'Tis known to happen that great _khan_s take their bodyguards to their beds, to ensure their devotion."

"But why selling them to allies?" asked Melpomaen. "One would think that selling them to enemies would better ensure that they remind childless."

Andrahar sighed. Sometimes he asked himself whether these Western people would ever understand the ways the mind of his own kin worked.

"Nay," he said. "'Tis the other way round. An ally would protect the legitimate sons by keeping the bastard childless, for thus he can keep the alliance. Sometimes they even go as far as castrating the boys, even in Harad, and fairly often in Khand. But an enemy would prefer strengthening the bastard line and diluting the blood of the House further."

Melpomaen digested this for a while.

"Your people are truly strange," he decided finally. Andrahar shrugged. Even though he was suffering from the practice in question, he found it not particularly strange.

"'Tis an old custom that has worked for many hundreds of years," he said. "Bad for those born in the wrong bed, like myself, but it serves the interests of the great Houses well."

The Elf shook his head in mild distaste. "A cruel custom it is."

Andrahar shrugged again. Honestly, he was getting a little tired of explaining the reasoning behind his people's cruelty. He was not surprised that Imrahil could not understand it. But he had thought that the head scribe, with all the experiences of a long life, would.

"We _are_ a cruel people," he said. "Our land is cruel to us, thus we have to be cruel to live in it. Had _I been_ the rightful heir, I most likely would have done the same. 'Tis the only way we know. And it _works_."

Melpomaen remained silent for a while, asking himself if this young man truly was the right companion for the young prince. No matter how devoted Andrahar was to his friend and saviour, he might not be a desirable influence. But Melpomaen knew as well as Prince Adrahil that it would be futile trying to separate Imrahil from his new friend.

"And how do you think about your customs now?" he finally asked. "Now, that you have seen other ways as well?"

"It still works for them," replied Andrahar simply. An inquiring eyebrow was raised again.

"For them – and for _you_?"

"I know not," Andrahar admitted with a sigh. "I would like to leave my old ways, yet I am not certain that I can. I was shaped very thoroughly to become what I am now. The price was… high."

"I am certain that it was," Melpomaen nodded. "But pray tell me, young one, what _are_ you, exactly? For you are no lonely child anymore, who needs to fight and cheat his way through the bazaars. Nor are you a street whore any longer, even though you are still tempted to buy favours in the old ways. What are you here, in Dol Amroth, in the court of the Prince?"

"Imrahil's shadow," answered the young Haradrim without hesitation. "His protector and guard. His living shield, should the need arise."

"Until your debt is paid?" the head scribe asked. Andrahar shook his head.

"There is more than that, and you know it, Master Scribe."

"I do," Melpomaen agreed. "Yet you need to understand that for keeping that place you have chosen, you must learn how things are done in Dol Amroth. You need to be better than the others, if you want to remain at Imrahil's side."

" I _am_ better than most," stated Andrahar a little haughtily.

"Mayhap," replied the Elf, "but you still try to do it _your_ way. If you want to secure your position, you will have to learn _their_ ways. For one day Imrahil will become Ruling Prince, and he cannot have a barbarian standing behind his throne. You must become a Swan Knight, if you want to be of any use."

"A Swan Knight?" the laughter of the young man was harsh and mirthless. "They will never accept me among themselves."

"They will, if the Prince orders so," said Melpomaen simply. "They will give you a hard time, of that I am certain, but in the end they will accept you. For them the only important thing is how good you are in your chosen field. You can prove yourself. As you said, you are good enough."

"I can never be like they are," murmured Andrahar.

"Nay," agreed Melpomaen, "that is true. But you can be better than they are in what you do. And you can have friendships and acquaintances among them, or among the others in the court. And lovers."

"I have had enough lovers for several lifetimes," Andrahar pulled a face.

"Nay, you have not," the head scribe replied. "You have had customers to please. That is something else entirely."

"In what?" Andrahar frowned, not entirely believing him.

"It can be very satisfying for both parties, if they are equals," the Elf explained. "And it keeps loneliness from one's heart, even if you cannot be with the one you desire most. Hearts-ease is a wonderful thing, young one."

Andrahar looked at him, still a little doubtfully. Then he grabbed one of those pale, slender hands – it looked almost translucent against his own dark skin – and squeezed a little gently.

"Teach me," he asked. Melpomaen raised another elegant eyebrow.

"Are you certain? I hope 'tis not some misguided sense of debt that makes you say so."

"Nay," Andrahar shook his head vehemently. "I know every little thing about pleasing a customer – yet I know naught about hearts-ease. _Can_ you teach me?"

"Why, certainly!" the Elf laughed. "I am old enough – you would not be my first younger lover. But I do feel a little uncomfortable about it. You still _are_ my charge."

"And I also am a grown man," the young Haradrim said, "no matter what the people of Dol Amroth may think. I make my own choices. And I want to learn this. For I wish not to spend my while life alone – or to become someone's bed slave again."

"Then come with me," Melpomaen rose gracefully, "and I shall teach you."

He stepped to one of the bookshelves and touched a flower-like ornament upon its beautifully-carved frame. The wooden flower sank half an inch deep into the shelf. Melpomaen pushed against the shelf lightly, and it turned with part of the wall soundlessly, opening like a door, barely wide enough for a grown man to slip through. Melpomaen, being particularly thin, had no difficulty passing, but Andrahar had to be careful, or else his broad shoulders would have been caught in the narrow passage.

Behind the door, there was a tall and airy room, sparsely furniture save a few small cupboards, a four-posted bed in the far corner and a writing desk at one of the tall windows. There was also a wash-stand near the bed and a bedside table with books and a small Elven-style lamp upon it. Another door, this one of the normal shape and size, most likely led to the corridor. The room lacked any ornaments, and its walls were covered with bookshelves, just like those of the library rooms. The only item of beauty was a large golden harp with silver strings, standing in a corner, half-covered by a green cloth.

"You are a minstrel, too?" Andrahar asked in surprise. The Elf shrugged.

"I was taught to become one. I am reasonably good at playing the harp, and my voice is pretty for a mere mortal. But when I heard a true Elven minstrel for the first time, I understood that it was not my true calling. So I chose the books instead. Although," he added with a wry smile, "Prince Adrahil says that I am still twice as good as the fools of his court who call themselves minstrels."

"You never play your harp anymore?" Andrahar asked. He was curious how the head scribe would handle the beautiful instrument.

"Rarely," Melpomaen replied. "Though now that the court is absent, I may play a little during the Autumn festival, since all the minstrels will be gone to the noble houses to earn some coin."

"I would like to hear it," said Andrahar. "I hope Imrahil will choose to remain at home during the festivities."

"So do I," answered Melpomaen. "'Tis high time for him to calm down a little. But first let us warm up ourselves."

He opened one of the cupboards that stood near the first window and brought forth a green bottle, bewritten with golden Elvish letters, and two goblets of masterfully-cut glass.

"A cup of wine first?" he asked. "It may not be as strong as what you are used to, but trust me, it _does_ have fire. Prince Adrahil got a dozen of these from the Lord of Edhellond, and they make good wine."

"Elven wine is deceptive," snorted Andrahar, "just like the Elves themselves."

Melpomaen laughed. "Mayhap they are. But you will never know what they are capable of, 'til you have tested their fire. Just like that of their wine."

He raised his goblet as if in greeting, and Andrahar did the same.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Young Prince Imrahil celebrated the Autumn Festival in Dol Amroth Castle in that year. 'Twas a quiet celebration, since the court was in Edhellond, and all the nobles returned to their own palaces to have their own celebrations in the circle of their families. Melpomaen did play his harp during the opening ceremony, and Andrahar had to admit that his mentor in things of hearts-ease was a very skilled minstrel, indeed. Then he was asked to play something on the small, four-stringed Haradric instrument called the _guzla_ (the only thing that he brought with him aside of his weapons), and earned many compliments for his musical skills.

He shared Melpomaen's bed for six seasons – that long did it take 'til he felt confident enough to seek out new affairs on his own. The head scribe stepped back readily when he voiced his wish to move on, and they separated amiably. Andrahar continued working with the librarian on that never-ending book about Haradric languages and customs, and while they could not be called friends – they were much too different for that, in age, interests and temper – they kept a peculiar closeness far into the Fourth Age, 'til Melpomaen finally succumbed to the burden of his high age and died.

Andrahar became the Armsmaster of Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth and trained his Swan Knights for decades. They brought the Prince through many battles, even to Barad-dûr and back, and always managed to keep him out of harm's way, in spite of the often reckless nature of their Lord. And Andrahar became so famous, due to his weapons' skills, that even the new King spoke of him with respect and admiration.

He also kept his secret love for Imrahil, well-hidden in the fiery depths of his heart. He had short affairs and long-term relationships, during which he always remained faithful to his partners, for that was his very nature. And though his heart was devoted to Imrahil forever, he found with them the hearts-ease that Melpomaen had spoken of, back in his youth.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

_khan_ is a Khazar expression and mains roughly "Lord". Chieftains of a tribe or heads of great families were called so. The highest authority was the _kagan_ or _ka-khan_, later replaced by the King.

_guzla_ is a real instrument, though I am not sure that it has four strings. Several nomadic people, which the pagan Hungarians lived with in their old home, used it – usually the women, but on occasion the men, too.

For learning about Andrahar's final fate read the Epilogue, written by Isabeau of Greenlea.


	5. Epilogue: In All But Blood

**IN ALL BUT BLOOD**

**by Isabeau of Greenlea**

**An epilogue to Pawns and Symbols**

Written for Henneth Annun's Memorial Day Challenge

**Disclaimer and A/N: see Part 1.**

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The sun was blinding white overhead the day he left me, falling away from his place at my back in silence. His horse had been killed under him and I had dismounted to cover him, finding the breath to laugh in the stifling hot air at the curses he shouted at me, yelling at me to stay on my wretched horse. I saw him fall out of the corner of my eye, and cursing in my turn, moved to straddle him. The men of my house, all of whom he had trained from boyhood, were finally able to drive the enemy back and enfold us in a ring of steel, but it was too late for him.

I held him in my arms as the desert sand seemed to suck the life's-blood from him. He did not say much, but then, he had never been much for words.

"'Tis my turn to lead, and yours to follow, just this once," he growled, his brow furrowed.  "But see that you don't get in a hurry about it."  

"I won't," I whispered, bending my head and kissing him on the mouth, as I knew he would wish. His lips smiled beneath mine; then, with a last coppery sigh he left me. I remained there, oblivious, as the last actions of the battle were fought around me, heedless of the sun hammering down upon my head or my men ringing us in grief and shocked silence.

Eventually, a shadow blocked the sun. I knew who it had to be, and spoke without looking up.

"I will war no more for you, Aragorn. I am too old for this, and I am going home." A hand brushed my shoulder, respect and sorrow and understanding all conveyed in a single touch.

"Then go in peace, Imrahil."

I took him home with me, wondering even as I did so if I should, for some of his folk gave their dead to the fire, and others to the desert. My mind was beset and befogged with grief, and it took my sons to clear it.

"It matters naught what his folk did," said Amrothos, "for he is not of them now. He is family."

"There is only one thing you can do," said Elphir, and he laid before me an idea which comforted me much.

"You do not mind?" I asked my boys. They all declared that they did not, and so it was done.

I visit them both often now, in the House of the Princes; my wife, who is entombed upon the left side of the bier that will be mine one day soon, and he who was my brother in all things but the least important upon the right. The shield man's place, as is fitting. Let men wonder in the future how a Haradrim came to be here among us, let them speculate. The inscription says little, as he would prefer, but it says all that is important.

Here lies Andrahar of Dol Amroth.


End file.
